Part 22 (1/2)

”At least not for now.”

”Look...” I stopped, and because the sidewalk was crowded, I stepped closer to the front display window of a men's clothing store. ”I think we need to talk.”

Nev made a face. ”Not about Kaz, I hope. You don't think I think-”

”It doesn't matter what you think. What matters is what's real. And what's real is that I'm over him. He's over me. He only comes around when he needs something.”

”Yeah, but he keeps coming around.”

It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly. It was more like Nev was just stating the truth, and that meant I couldn't deny it.

”No doubt, the next time he needs to hide or he's low on money... Yeah, he'll show up again,” I said. ”But even if he does...”

”Even if he does?” Nev asked.

And honestly, I couldn't think of the right words to explain.

Instead, I showed him. I kissed him.

Right there.

Right on the sidewalk.

Right on the lips.

”Wow!” When I was finished, Nev said what I was thinking. ”So now it looks like we have something else to talk about right? First it was murder, then Kaz, now-”

I wasn't ready for the L word, so I didn't let him say it. Instead, I slipped my arm around Nev's waist. ”Not to worry. If we run out of things to say, we can always talk about b.u.t.tons!”

MOTHER OF PEARL b.u.t.tONS.

Billions of mother of pearl (MOP) b.u.t.tons were manufactured in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many of them stamped from the sh.e.l.ls of mussels taken from the Mississippi River. In fact, Muscatine, Iowa, once reigned as Pearl b.u.t.ton Capital of the World.

Of course, since they were so common, MOP b.u.t.tons are not especially valuable. They are, though, quite pretty, with a nice s.h.i.+ne and a s.h.i.+mmer of color.

To determine if a b.u.t.ton is made of sh.e.l.l, hold it to your cheek. Mother of pearl is cooler than plastic. You can also look for striations on the back of the b.u.t.ton.

For more information on vintage b.u.t.tons and b.u.t.ton collecting, contact the National b.u.t.ton Society at e to learn that she was usually as serious as a heart attack and as levelheaded about her successful medical transcription firm back in Ardent Lake as I was about my shop where I sold antique and collectible b.u.t.tons to dealers, hobbyists, and discerning sewers and crafters. Sure, the woman not only read her horoscope each day, but actually remembered it and acted on its advice. That didn't mean she was crazy, did it? Out of the ordinary. Sure, I'd go along with that. But ruddy-cheeked, well-dressed, understated Angela never struck me as crazy.

”Of course you're not making any of it up,” I said, because really, a woman like me found it impossible to even imagine that a woman like her could. ”You're obviously upset. What's going on, Angela? And what does it have to do with the charm string?”

She tried for a smile, but it wavered around the edges. ”I'm not surprised you figured out it's all about those d.a.m.ned b.u.t.tons. I heard you were smart. That's one of the reasons I chose you when I looked for someone to put a value on that... thing.”

Again, her gaze landed on the charm string. But only for a second. Angela might be trying to put on a brave face, but her body language spoke volumes. She sat up a little straighter and angled her spine back, putting as much distance as possible between herself, my worktable, and the charm string on it. A skitter shook her shoulders. ”You knew, and I didn't even have to tell you. Can you feel the psychic vibrations, too?” Her palm flat, she put a hand over the b.u.t.tons that many years ago, her great-great-grandmother had painstakingly slipped onto a heavy piece of string, the way so many girls had in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Making charm strings had been something of a fad back then. Girls collected and strung b.u.t.tons, and the tradition was that each b.u.t.ton had to be different. b.u.t.tons were traded, given as gifts, and brought back as souvenirs from places like Niagara Falls and New York City, and legend said that when b.u.t.ton number one thousand came into a girl's life, so would her Prince Charming.

I can't say if that last bit about happily-ever-after held true for every charm string maker, but I do know that strings with all one thousand b.u.t.tons on them are rare enough to make any b.u.t.ton collector salivate.

Angela's charm string had exactly one thousand b.u.t.tons on it, and I had been salivating over it since the day she called and asked me to take a look at the photos she'd taken of the b.u.t.tons so that I could value the charm string for tax purposes before she donated it to her local historical society. Of course, I'd been trying to get her to sell it to me since that day, too.

So far, no dice.

Which, to me, was my own version of a curse.

I snapped out of the thought to find Angela still with her hand poised over the b.u.t.tons. ”I can practically feel the bad luck bubbling off this thing,” she said.

This was the point at which I seriously began re-a.s.sessing my opinion of Angela.

Not that I could let on. I wasn't about to honk off a customer who was willing to pay for an appraisal just because she was a little... er... eccentric. Especially not when six weeks after she'd sent my b.u.t.ton mania into overdrive by sending me the photos, she'd finally brought me the genuine article to study, admire, and yes, covet anew.

I sc.r.a.ped my palms against the black pants I was wearing with a spring-green cotton sweater. ”You keep looking at the b.u.t.tons as if they're going to ignite and take the whole shop with them.”

Angela glanced from side to side before she leaned forward and lowered her voice. ”I wouldn't be surprised.”

”So you really do think the b.u.t.tons are going to bring you bad luck?”

”No, no, Josie. They're not going to bring me bad luck. They have brought me bad luck. Ever since the day I inherited them. And funny you should mention fire. I had a fire at home. Not two weeks after I brought these b.u.t.tons into my house.”

Before I'd followed my dream and opened the b.u.t.ton Box, I'd once worked as an administrative a.s.sistant at an insurance agency. I knew the statistics. ”Home fires are not all that uncommon,” I said, and believe me, I tried to put a kind spin on it. ”As a matter of fact, every year-”

”Yes, yes. I know all that.” Angela hopped off the stool and paced the length of my workroom, from the counter where I have one of those mini-refrigerators, a microwave, and a coffeemaker, to the far wall, and back again. ”Don't think other people haven't tried to tell me things like that. It was an accident, Angela. It was unfortunate. It happens all the time.” Her voice singsonged over the false comfort the way I'm sure her friends' had when they offered it. ”But don't you see, Josie? This is different!” She pulled to a stop directly in front of me and, fists on hips, looked down her long, slim nose.

”The fire came after the attempted break-in. And the attempted break-in just so happened to come the day after I got the charm string out of Aunt Evelyn's safe-deposit box and brought it home. That...” She stopped here like she expected me to interrupt, and with a glance, dared me to even think about it. ”That was the same day the brakes went on my car. While I was on the freeway.” The way her voice trembled said volumes about how terrifying the incident must have been.

”As far as that fire,” she went on, ”maybe the whole thing won't sound like just another statistic when I tell you that not four months earlier, there was a fire at my great-aunt's house, too.”

”Aunt Evelyn? You mean the one who-”